Page 36 of A Sham Betrothal
“No. I came with my mother and sister, but he left with scarcely a by-your-leave. It enrages me, this off-hand leave-taking as though I were no more to him than a…a puppy. He clearly does not esteem me if he can do such a thing.”
Sophie remembered how miserable he had looked when they’d met at the Tuileries. She had encouraged him to try again. “Perhaps,” she said gently, “he fears you would rather be with thecomtethan with him.”
“Then he doesn’t consider me worth the fight. Or he is afraid to lose—and that is just as bad.”
Sophie let her eyes drift as she inhaled the scents of the garden and worked at the problem in her mind. Should she stay clear of a situation that did not directly concern her? A situation in which she could not even be sure her advice would be useful or welcome? But then Mr. Arlington’s face loomed before her, a picture of misery. And even Zoé’s face was troubled when they were at odds. No, it was clear Sophie needed to say something.
“Perhaps it is not that he so little considers you or that he is afraid. From what I know of him, scant though that is, I believe it is rather because he is a gentleman and therefore will not press you. He naturally prefers to be assured of your partiality to him above all others. When he is sure of your regard, he will fight for you. That does not reveal cowardice or a lack of concern—it is simply good breeding. At least for an Englishman.”
Zoé turned to study her, her expression contemplative. “You said something like this before.Doyou think it’s his gentlemanly ways that cause him to react thus?” A laugh escaped her. “I don’t believe the French male has such a notion. He takes what he wants.”
“Which would you rather have?” Sophie asked, a smile forming. She had not minded when Basile had stolen the kiss from her. Although it was hardly as though he had stolen it. She had handed it to him on a silver platter.
“Oh, I suppose I would rather be allowed to choose.” After a silence which Sophie did not try to fill, Zoé exhaled. “Very well. I will show him my partiality—even whena most charmingcomteor other gentleman comes to flirt—for I have been quite miserable. We shall see if what you say is true.”
“I think that is a very good notion,” Sophie said, inwardly willing Mr. Arlington to do his part.
Zoé sat up straighter and turned a smiling countenance to her. “But then tell me how you are. How is your engagement?” She nudged her with her arm. “Is it becoming more real by the day?”
The question, said in jest, little helped. “On the contrary, it is becoming frighteningly hard to maintain such an imposture.” Sophie slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out the letter from the queen and handed it to Zoé, who opened it and perused the elegant scrawl.
“Ciel!”
Heavens was right! “I can only suppose Basile received something similar. How are we to keep this up when the queen has taken notice of it?”
Zoé read it twice then set it on her lap, allowing a soft, “How I wish I could go,” to escape before she sat upright. “But this is not about me.”
“What am I todo?” Sophie asked her. “Basile does not seem at all concerned over the entanglement we have gotten ourselves into.”
“Basile possesses a maddening ability to do whatever he wishes without sparing a thought for how inconvenient others might find it,” Zoé replied tartly. When Sophie pressed her hands to her eyes, she touched her arm. “No, I should not have said that. Though he is not considerate likeCharles is, he does have a remarkable way of seeing things through.”
“I know she is notmyqueen, but Marie-Antoinette is still a queen. Do I lie to her?” Sophie turned to face Zoé, desperate for comfort, for guidance.
“I think only Basile can truly answer that question, and we shall have to apply to him for what to do.” Zoé handed the letter back to Sophie. “His sister should have arrived in Paris by now. I believe she was to have come yesterday. That will give me a reason to visit him and find out what he means to do.”
She patted Sophie’s arm. “You may trust him to keep you from all harm, or I shall have something to say to him.”
Chapter 17
Basile sat atLe Gradotwith an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. He had gone to the café for distraction, but now that he sat here…imprisonedby the memories of his kiss with Sophie—memories that somehow seemed physically weighted—he wished only to remain in the enthrallment of those memories rather than seeking the distraction he had come for.
Noises erupted around him as the café’s occupants called for a beer or coffee, a pastry, or a dish of sorbet. Basile had taken his breakfast earlier that morning without tasting anything and even now could not stomach the thought of anything but coffee, which sat in front of him growing cold. A waiter approached with a newspaper, but he waved him away.
What had Sophie been about last night, flirting with him in such a direct manner? It placed him in a difficult, almost vulnerable position, because for once he was not in command. She should know what such flirtation led to—it paralyzed a man, or it set him on fire. For him, it had done both. He was first paralyzed under her touch. That was,until he had kissed her and became consumed with a fire that incinerated his reason.
His thoughts took him hostage in pleasant agony as he grappled with the question of why she had instigated that particular act of spellbinding. He supposed the secret lay in her words: that in order for their charade to be believable, she had to flirt back with him. But he also wondered if she did so out of retaliation, wishing to show him what it felt like when he did the same to her. He knew she stilled under his touch. Knew it affected her.
No one had come to distract him or disturb his peace in his hour at the café, so Basile stood to pay his shot. It was time he went home anyway. His sister and her husband were supposed to come and stay at the marquis’s family home for the length of her confinement. It was not that her husband did not have his own house in Paris, but Thérèse wished to be surrounded by all that was familiar, she had said.
Basile exited the café and turned left onto the Quai de l’Ecole to walk the short distance to the Pont Neuf, still troubled in his mind. No woman had ever disturbed him in the way Sophie did. That he would be tempted to pretend a friendship where there had been none might be explained away by his own whimsy and mischief, but to send his nurse to assist her within a week’s acquaintance? Or that he would look forward to seeing her and discussing anything from his feelings on being the marquis to the art of flirting—that he would announce a betrothal without actually contracting one! His behavior was nothing short of inexplicable.
Did he indeed wish to marry her?
The foreign thought stopped him dead in his tracks. That caused a tradesman walking behind him to bump intohim, first with an oath, then a mumbled pardon delivered with a lowered brow.
“C’est moi,” Basile murmured in return. No, no, no. It could not be. He was too young to be thinking of marriage. He intended to wait until he was forty at the very least before making such an attempt. If one was going to throw away years of one’s life, then better to do so when the very best were at least behind him. He could enter the state of matrimony when his youth was a thing of the past.
He crossed the bridge, hardly noticing the Seine rushing beneath. The moving water brought a cooling breeze to temper the August heat. He lifted his gaze ahead to the even row of cream-colored stone houses on the opposite quay.
